Like Lucy and Ricky
by Zighana
Summary: Todd wanted a simplistic life with Lydia: nice house, a dog, and a classic romance reminiscent of the 50s. He may not have it with Lydia, but Jesse makes a good substitute. ToddxJesse, wife!Jesse, husband!Todd, adopted!Brock and adopted!Jake.
1. Chapter 1

**Like Lucy and Ricky**

Todd is, secretly, a hopeless romantic. When he was a child, his mother used to make him watch _I Love Lucy_. He didn't understand it at first, a Latino man marrying a white woman and having hilarious adventures. The comedy is forever lost on him; his idea of humor was how many colors his mother could turn when Daddy Dearest choked her for too long. But despite its gaudy humor, he became fascinated by Lucy and Ricky's life: two people who love each other, living the American Dream. They lived as man and wife, in a nice, furnished home, with two children. No brutal fights, no sense of despair, no dead look in Lucy's eyes. They were happy, perfect, and a mold that Todd wanted to fit into one day.

Lydia is the essence of perfection: pristine, smart, beautiful, _white_, and gives him feelings no ordinary woman or 'Candy-with-an-I' can give him. He aches for her, and she's well-aware of that. They had hit it off once, but when Lydia learns of his obsession and intentions for her, she _politely_ told him to back off lest he wants to lose body parts, Uncle Jack be damned. Afterwards, it became business and he'd only seen her every three weeks at a time.

Todd snaps out of his thoughts when he notices a shivering body at his feet. Jesse, beaten and bruised, is trying to inch away from him in this holding cell. Jesse, with his golden locks and crystal blue eyes, looked…feminine.

He has the same eyes as Lucy.

Todd has been ordered to kill Jesse two weeks ago, but instead has decided to keep him under Todd's care in the comfort of his basement. He tells Uncle Jack that Jesse could still be of use to them, much to Uncle Jack's irritancy. Jesse has long since worn out his usefulness; his secrets of making perfect meth have been given to Todd. Uncle Jack, after hearing of this, orders Todd to execute Jesse, take out Brock in case the little fucker either tells or gets old enough to retaliate, and to do business as usual. Normally Todd would do as asked, but something about seeing Jesse makes him reconsider. Despite what Jesse says about Todd, Todd always looks up to Jesse. He's cool, mature, and tough, worthy of Heisenberg's respect. He's his carbon copy; killing Jesse would be killing a sliver of Heisenberg.

He's stuck between a rock and a hard place: kill Jesse and possibly face the wrath of Heisenberg, or keep Jesse alive and face the wrath of Uncle Jack. From what Todd understands, angering the two men always resulted in death, family or friends are no exception.

He briefly remembers his older sister found gunned down with her children in her car after Uncle Jack caught her stealing his drug money to buy her heroin from the Hispanics three weeks before.

Part of him considers leaving the drug business behind; what's there to offer him, really? Death has happened so much it's boring, losing its novelty. He still clings to his fantasy of the perfect home dearly, so close to his heart he wonders if it's the moment to choose: Uncle Jack or his dream. Dead bodies dissolving in acid or white picket fences with a laughing wife making him breakfast? The smile of his uncle or the smile of a doting son?

He glances at Jesse again, and a strange vision clouds his mind. Jesse, laughing, smiling, _loving_, waiting for him in a nice home with the black and white linoleum floors like he dreamed.

He has an idea that will keep Jesse alive and fulfill his fantasy.

Todd crouches down beside Jesse, yanking his chains, making him jerk into Todd's grasp.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Todd whispers, as if telling an old friend. Jesse looks at him, fear and indignation clear in his eyes.

"I always loved I Love Lucy," Todd begins, not caring that Jesse's unresponsive.

"I wanted the life Ricky has: Loving wife, wonderful kids, and a nice household. It was different from the life I had growing up," Todd looks at Jesse, hoping he'd give an inkling of interest. Jesse instead stares at the floor beneath his feet, refusing to acknowledge him.

"What are you getting at," Jesse says, wincing at the strain of his vocal chords.

"I want to make a deal with you," Todd sits up Jesse so he could look at him.

"I want to live the life of Lucy and Ricky, and you're the only one that could fit the role. Be my wife, give me the life that I want, and you'll be free. No more captivity, no more death, no more meth business. Just you, me, and our vows."

"You're more fucked in the head than I thought," Jesse chuckles darkly.

"This is the only way to keep you alive..."

"Keep me alive? Well, even though I've been tortured, beaten, and watched my girlfriend get killed in front of me, at least I know you care about me being alive." He turns to his side.

"Put a bullet in my head and be done with it. It's the most merciful thing you'll ever do for me."

Todd frowns; it's not what he had hoped for at all.

"If you're alive you'll be able to know if Brock is still alive. You may even feel safe knowing Jake is in one piece."

Jesse whips his head so fast it's a blur.

"You Opie, sick, son of a bitch! Don't you even lay a _finger _on either one or I'll kill you, I swear to God I'll do it!" Jesse lunges for Todd but plummets to the ground with his loss of strength. There it is: the fire in Jesse's soul. It's back, burning bright and vicious. His blue eyes aren't dead and hollow, but filled with life.

Todd was right playing the cowardly sneak attack; he now gave him a reason to live, to carry out his fantasy.

"Not if you're dead. Uncle Jack told me to kill you then kill Brock. If he knows you're alive he'll kill you, me, Brock, and anyone associated with you. You need to do what I say and they'll live." Todd goads. _Take the carrot,_ he thinks to himself. _Take the carrot._

Jesse stares at him, eyes filled with the deepest of hatred. He gnashes his teeth, inhales as sharply as much as he exhales. Finally, the moment of truth.

"I do."


	2. Honey, Put On That Party Dress

**Honey, Put On That Party Dress**

Jesse looks at himself in the mirror for the fifteenth time, trying not to grab a shard and impale himself with it. It will be approximately two hours before the sickening ceremony begins and he'll be…_married_.

He imagines this day extraordinarily different: the sky would be bright, the birds would sing, and the wedding would be outside. Family, friends, even Walter White, would be sitting in pristine white chairs and looking onward with pride as he stands for his bride. His bride, Jane, or Andrea at the moment, would be in a nice wedding gown (he doesn't want it to be fancy; it could be a prom dress for all he cared), walking towards him with a bright smile.

Andrea's curls would look so lovely through that lacey veil; Jane's straight black hair would contrast delicately with the sheer fabric.

He would say his vows and actually mean them, and he'll kiss his bride. Fireworks would explode, flowers would blossom, the hailing of rice would pelt his suit.

It would be his Happily Ever After.

Now, as he stares back at himself one last time, he realizes Todd has ruined his dream; he'd turned it into a goddamn nightmare, a warped parody of his fantasy.

He's being married inside a cheaply rented chapel by a minister dressed as Elvis Presley. Outside is pouring down rain with ominous gray skies, as if God wasn't satisfied with how well Jesse understands that this is the worst mistake of his life so far.

Jesse hates the way his baby blues contrast so delicately with his mascara and warm eye shadow. He hates that the subtle tint of strawberry lipstick and peach blush makes him look more woman than man. He hates the wig that falls to his shoulders in soft waves make this illusion believable. He finds it creepy how his wedding dress fits him perfectly; hiding evidence that he's not a blushing bride by the farthest stretch of imagination. He complains that the wedding shoes are too small for his manly feet; they blister every time he walks.

But when Todd sees him as he walks down the aisle, he's the prettiest bride anyone has ever seen.

Here comes Todd, dopey, creepy, _psychotic_ Todd, waiting for him as he walks down the aisle in that goddamn dress. He casts his eyes downward, forcing himself not to look at his groom.

His groom.

Jesse's groom.

Those two words should never belong in the same sentence.

"We are gathered here today to bring these two lovers here in holy matrimony…"

_I will kill you. Count on it, bitch._

"…In the eyes of the Lord may your marriage be forever fruitful and prosperous…"

_I will strangle you with my bare hands and shove this wedding ring down your throat._

"If there's anyone that would object to these two being wed, please speak now, or forever hold your peace…"

_You're a sick, psychotic, little fuck that deserves every sick punishment in Hell for what you've done to me, Andrea, and Drew Sharp._

"Todd Alquist, do you take Jesse Bruce Pinkman to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

"I do."

_I hate you, Todd. Up to my last breath, I will hate you and wish you a slow, horrible, and painful death._

"And do you, Jesse Bruce Pinkman, take Todd Alquist to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

He looks at Todd, and in the most charming smile he could muster, he finally says,

"I do."


	3. California Dreaming

California Dreaming

_Jesse lies in his bed, laughing as Jane dances around the bright yellow room. _

"_Why are you so chipper, babe?" Jesse asks tiredly as he looks to her. She wears an oversized t-shirt with red cheekies underneath that peek when she moves her hips. She sings while twirling, grabbing linen and folding it in the air._

"_Just thinking about this song Dad used to sing to me when I'm blue. It picks up my mood when I listen to it."_

"_What song is it?"_

"_California Dreaming by The Mamas And The Papas. It makes me think about California. My Dad said that one day, when he retires, he'll move out to Santa Monica and take me with him. We'll go to a nice beach house and soak up the sun."_

"_Sounds nice, Jane. Maybe we could visit one day. But now," he pulls Jane by the waist back into his bed._

"_Let's have some California Dreaming of our own in our bed."_

Jesse blinks himself awake as he felt the background around him rumble. He sits up quickly and looks around. Darkness, save for the peeks of brightening blue skies and silhouettes of mountains and trees, is all Jesse could see.

"Nice to see you're up, Jesse. I was going to wake you in an hour, but you looked very tired. I need you bright and early in the next few hours."

"What's the occasion?" Jesse grumbles, shrugging the blankets off his frame.

"Our honeymoon. We're newlyweds, after all. I scheduled a stay in California. Los Angeles, the City of Angels. You'll love it; Lydia and I had a rendezvous here to discuss…"

Jesse tried to tune out what Todd is saying. He doesn't want to be reminded of his old life, before Walter turned on him, before he's married to Todd the Psycho.

Todd once again took his fantasies and warped them into another ironic nightmare. Jesse had plans for California; he planned on leaving the meth business behind with Jane in tow and they start new lives opening a comic book store in Santa Monica. Now, he's going to Los Angeles, the _worst_ part of California, for a honeymoon. A honeymoon, that's a laugh; what would take place during such honeymoon? Shall Jesse be tied up and gagged while Todd got his rocks off watching him struggle? Or perhaps Jesse would be forced to wear women's clothing again to keep this illusion of a normal married couple alive? The latter sounds the most like Todd.

He'll kill him. Oh, how he'll kill him.

Meanwhile, Todd is driving down the road, humming a tune to himself. He's blissfully unaware of his spouse's discontent; his head is clouded with fantasies of what's to take place in the greatest place in California, Los Angeles.

In his life of being a farm boy and proud country bumpkin, Todd had always dreamed of going to the big cities. New York, Los Angeles, Seattle, Dallas, all names of big cities that movie stars go to for showing off their gorgeous smiles and prosperous wealth. He fell in love with Los Angeles: bright sunny days, gorgeous blonde women with perfect tans, fast paced streets that could make anyone a star; their promising streets and welcoming celebrities is enough to render the boy star-struck.

He wants to go there with Jesse; the bright sun and happy faces might brighten up his spouse. He scheduled a romantic getaway in the most posh hotel LA had to offer; two weeks of romantic bliss that might warm Jesse up to him. And ease him to Todd's plans for the future.

In the long term, his fantasy life isn't complete without children. Todd and Jesse obviously can't make one themselves, the adoption centers won't exactly find two meth dealers suitable parents, and Todd doesn't know a woman in sight that's willing to be a surrogate mother. But when he thought back to Jesse's paternal nature, especially his attitude towards Brock, Todd hatched an idea that might suit them both.

Brock, a nice piece to the new Alquist-Pinkman household. There's a boy, but what about a girl?

Todd doesn't exactly care for girls, anyway. Too many emotions, clothes, toys, and hair products to go through to raise one. And God forbid the day they reach puberty and blood trickles down their thighs…

He thinks back to his talk with Jesse. Jesse has a little brother, a prodigy from what he researched. Jake. Jake sounds like a wonderful addition to their family. Smart, well-rounded, related to Jesse. He's perfect.

He could see it now: He and Jesse, with matching sweaters, posing for the camera as their two boys sit on chairs below them. They all smile, laugh, and crack corny jokes as the camera man keeps flashing his camera.

"I love you, Dad." Brock would say, and Todd would be moved to tears. Dad, such a lovely title…

They'd all live in a nicely furnished home and begin their morning: Jesse, with his pink apron and his back to the family, making breakfast while Todd reads the newspaper, pipe in his mouth. Brock and Jake would chatter away about a game they have to go to or an exam they need to study for. Breakfast would be served, and Jesse would make a few remarks with a smile, and the family would erupt in laughter.

Yes, it could work.

He'll make it work.

Even if it kills him.


	4. Pop, Pop Bang, Bang

**Pop, Pop. Bang, Bang.**

Brock is haunted by the demon in his closet: Guilt.

He thinks back to the night that ruined his world forever, and he kept thinking,

_"What would've happened if he had protected his mother that awful night?"_

It was a Thursday night, and Brock and Andrea had just finished watching another movie. It was time for bed, Andrea kissed him goodnight and disappeared downstairs. Brock lied in bed, trying to sleep, but there was this strong feeling in his gut that kept him awake. Something is wrong, _very_ wrong, he can feel it in his bones.

Like any weary child his age, he ran to his mother and explained his concerns. Andrea, tired from working and dealing with her family, told him to go to bed and to not think much of it. Brock, ignoring her command, pleaded with his mother that something isn't right, that they need to do something and do something _fast,_ or something bad will happen. He couldn't explain it, and it's making tired and exhausted Andrea agitated.

It wasn't long before Andrea snapped at him, telling him to march to his room and not make a peep or she'll fetch her belt. Brock, leery of The Belt, resignation to his room in defeat.

He tries to brush it off; maybe it's the candy he ate or that monster in the movie. But it's not the candy or the movie.

It's danger.

Brock lies in bed for what seemed like hours, staring at his ceiling as car lights flash past his household, making the shadows of the trees stretch across the ceiling like in a dance. It fascinates Brock, but it won't push down that strange feeling in his gut. So he lies there, counting imaginary sheep, reciting those old stories his tìa used to tell him that put him to sleep, when he hears a vibration.

It sounds like it's drawing near his home.

He shot out of bed and peeled the curtain just a little to see what is out there.

It's this sorry excuse for a car perched at the sidewalk to his house. He doesn't recognize the car, and he doubts there's any friends or family his mother forgot to mention that's coming over, especially this late.

He looks closely.

A man he has never seen before emerges from the car, walking to the front steps like he owned the place. He reminds Brock of those choir boys he'd seen when he went to Mass with his Aunt not too long ago: blonde hair, a calm, serene face, a build that looks non threatening. He's clad in a bomber jacket and black jeans, a contrast to his angelic appearance. Maybe he's a friend of Jesse's...?

_Jesse_. The feeling in his gut got stronger, like ice fell in it.

That man is trouble.

He bolts out of his room, knocking on his mother's door with urgency, trying to warn her before it's too late.

"BROCK! What did I just tell you!"

There is his mother, at the foot of the stairs, belt clasped in hand.

"I warned you, Brock..."

"Mom, there's this guy at our door. I don't trust him, Mama..."

"Not one more word, Brock. I will give you five seconds before..."

_Knock-knock-knock._

_Too late,_ he hears a voice whisper in his ear.

Andrea looks at the door and back at him, hisses he march to his room, and that was all Brock saw before he closed his door.

He hears muffled voices, and then...

**POP.**

**THUD.**

A cry reminiscent of a wounded animal shouts into the sky.

Then, the roar of a car driving down the road, the headlights flashing through his ceiling.

Brock rushes down the stairs to see what's happened and he finds his mother, face down on the front porch, a pool of blood around her head.

It didn't take very long for Brock to realize it's too late to save her; she's dead.

The cops rush into his home, while the EMT's put his mother, the source of his would, into a black plastic bag, zipped away from Brock forever.

He didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.

After the interviews, the courts, the will, the funeral, Brock winds up on the doorstep of the man who threw his mother away after she was pregnant with him: his father. His father is, to put it nicely, a loser. He smokes, he drinks, he sleeps around with women and beats them if they stand up for themselves. He treats Brock like an extra paycheck, milking every last cent from Andrea's will to pay for his newly extravagant lifestyle.

Brock hates that man. He truly does.

During the months Brock has lived with his father, he learns another lovely tidbit about Daddy Dearest.

He's a proud gun aficionado.

It began during breakfast; Brock was busy helping himself to the last drop of milk when he notices his father shining his pistol. He talks to it, Charlene is her name. Then he places the bullets in and shoots, a bullet making the milk jug on the kitchen sink explode.

**POP.**

Old milk splatters the kitchen, and Brock breaks down screaming, screaming and crying until he can't take it and runs away. Flashbacks of the man, his mother, her blood, are too much for him right now. His father, ignorant of his trauma, decides the best way to make him _'stop screaming like a little bitch'_, is to beat it out of him.

It seems the things Brock does gets him a beating: reading too many books, asking too many questions, breathing too hard or even being too fat. The reasons make Brock not only hate this man, but sometimes, as guilty as it is, wish he were dead.

The best nights are when he passes out drunk and it leaves Brock to his thoughts.

He sees his mother most of his nights; her appearance becoming more and more decayed with each visit. She always tells him, "you should have protected me," then she would vanish into smoke. Tomas would come, calling him a _pinche cobarde _for not rescuing Andrea, for not being a man and protecting her.

_Coward_.

_Pussy_.

_Chicken-shit._

Those words swirl into Brock's mind, filling him with guilt. He knew something bad was going to happen; why didn't he do more for her? Could she still be alive if he did more?

The thought continues to depress him; he knows it won't bring Andrea back.

Days passed, and his feelings of guilt morphed into anger. That man, that _monster_, killed his mother! He may have gotten away with killing his mother, but Brock will make sure he won't make it to take another. He will avenge Andrea, if it's the last thing he does. Whoever is responsible will pay for ruining his life, his family, his whole world.

One night, while his father is sleeping, Brock stands behind him, pistol in his hand. That man is his target practice, the focus of his rage. He watched his dad long enough how to load the bullets, and how to shoot.

The barrel is to the back of his head. Execution style, just like his mother.

He cocks the gun, finger on the trigger and with a whisper, he says,

"Pop."


	5. Super Rich Kids

**Super Rich Kids**

Jake sits in a nicely furnished home, anxiety and curiosity bubbling in his gut.

He knows he doesn't belong here; he has a strong feeling they know too. He is supposed to be practicing for a violin recital and yet he's here, stuck to a leather couch with the plastic sheeting, giving his surroundings a look-over for the fifteenth time.

His classmates want him to come over to have some fun, take a break from their studies. It would sound innocent enough, if the classmates weren't Richard Gall and Francis Hernandez. They were known around Jake's private school as troublemakers, panty chasers, and rumored drug pushers. They were the crowd Jake would never associate with in any way possible, but _Jake_ is the one that pursued them, not the other way around.

So he sits there, picking the imaginary lint off his jacket, when a man enters the living room. He's a tall, muscular men with so many tattoos Jake could only see peeks of naked flesh. Even his face is tattooed; numbers and symbols that doesn't make sense to Jake are on his cheeks, neck, and forehead. He looks menacing, cruel, until he looks at Jake and smiles. He walks over and crouches down in front of him, hand outstretched.

"I'm Mr. Hernandez, Francis's father," he introduces, "and you must be one of his friends, right?"

Jake swallows and nods his head. This guy seems harmless enough. He shakes his hand, eyeing the tattoos on his face. They all look so...frightening. He looks like those men he'd seen in those prison films his parents forced him to watch. To see one in real life that's polite is surreal.

"Francis will be here shortly. You have a...biology exam you three need to study for?"

"Yes," Jake replies, "I have to tutor them about the structure of the pig we're dissecting." It was a half-truth; Jake would tutor them and do their homework in exchange for his intentions. Looking back at this gentle giant, who looks proud and oblivious to his son's activities, it makes him feel like the real criminal.

Francis and Richard enter the living room, still dressed in their schoolboy uniforms. They look like pure angels; perhaps that's why Mr. Hernandez is so blind.

"Papa," Francis began, "Jake, Richard, and I will be in my room studying now. We don't want to be disturbed."

"Sounds great, hijo. I'll be gone for a while. I have business to take care of with your Uncle." He ruffles Francis's hair.

"I'll be back to prepare dinner. You boys behave yourselves, hear?"

They all nodded their heads. Mr. Hernandez smiles and exits the house with a soft click of the front door. When the door's lock turns, Francis cherubic face slips into the mischievous imp Jake knows so well.

"Alright, let's get upstairs."

* * *

Jake lies on Francis's bed, staring off into the ceiling. Francis is busy tearing pages out of his biology textbook while Richard shreds the drugs. The strong smell of marijuana fills Jake nostrils. It almost makes him sick.

It reminds him of the last time they gave him a joint; it cost him Jesse's trust with their parents, and Jake's guilt over the matter. He distinctly remembers his brother crushing Richard's joint with words along the line of how crappy it was.

He laughs.

"What's so fucking funny, Jake?" Francis asks.

"Nothing. Just a little bit of irony."

Jake should feel awful that Jesse's attempt to get him out of trouble was in vain, that if his parents caught him in this behavior, they'd blame Jesse all over again. Jake should just get up and leave this room, pack his things, and never look back.

But he doesn't.

He wants to do something bad for once.

Richard finally constructs the joint; the glossy page of a chapter from the Female Anatomy stuffed with weed makes Jake cringe. He wishes they wouldn't desecrate a textbook like that, to instead invest in some good quality rolling paper. But when Francis lights it and inhales, Jake is beyond caring.

Francis takes it in like a pro, his chest slowly rising, the joint quickly shortening to ash and ember. He waits for a few seconds, and exhales, the room filling with smoke. A lazy smile slaps on his face, and he lies on the ground, passing the joint to Richard. Richard repeats the actions, then the joint passes to Jake.

He takes it, cringing at its soggy texture, and tries to emulate the two boys. Instead of looking majestic and cool, he breaks into a sputtering fit. He coughs and hacks, trying to get air. Mucus runs down his nose, his eyes water, and his chest feels tight. He pounds his chest, coughing as hard and as loud as he can until the smoke cleared from his chest.

He collapses on the floor, gasping. When he hears laughing, he knows he'd screwed up. Richard is laughing, but Francis is pissed.

"The fuck you gon' cough like that and drop the joint? Now there's a burn mark in the carpet!"

Jake looks at the space of floor next to him and sees the joint burning into the carpet. He quickly takes it and stubs it out.

"I'm sorry," he begins, "this is my first time."

"That was good quality weed, man."

_No it isn't,_ Jake thinks in his head. He instead nods his head and grins sheepishly.

"So, let's get down to homework."

"Fuck the homework. I just wanna get faded." Richard replies, rolling another joint.

Francis instead inspects the carpet, glaring at the burn mark.

"I think you should go."

* * *

Jake walks home, stuffing his fists in his pockets. The night air did little to cool the anger bubbling in his gut.

He had made a fool of himself; he had pretended to be something he isn't and paid for it by being the laughing stock of his peers. Knowing them, Jake is sure Richard and Francis will tell the boys at school how much of a loser he is for being such a spaz. Jake would never hear the end of their taunts. He could even imagine Richard calling him Chokey the next day. How could he have been so stupid? He could've risked his health and could've gotten in serious trouble if caught! He wonders how Jesse does it, being the cool kid and smoking grass. What would Jesse do?

_Jesse_ would've known what to do, _Jesse_ would've walked the walk as much as he talked the talk. _Jesse_ would've smoked it like a pro and be _cool_, not sputter and cough like an idiot. _Jesse_...

Wouldn't have tried to be something he's not.

Would've looked down on people like Francis and Richard for the assholes they are.

Would've been very upset with Jake for trying to be him.

That's where Jake feels most guilty.

All he wanted was to be cool like Jesse, to be daring like Jesse. To not be the Boy Scout Honor Student his parents forced him to be for once.

He loathes his parents sometimes; all they'd do was talk about Jesse while placing immense pressure on Jake to be the prodigy, the son that's not a fuck-up. Their last chance for bragging rights at those snooty dinner parties.

Jake allowed them to take him to violin classes, study with the best tutors, to push and push and push until he won awards, scholarships, and colleges rushing to his door. He became their experiment that actually succeeded. To this day he wonders if all those things he had accomplished was of his own free will, or because his parents forced it on him. He sometimes lies in bed at night and asks himself, "What do _you_ want to do? Really?"

He can never think up a good enough answer.

He could care less about Harvard, Ivy League, or Yale. He doesn't want all those scholarships and straight A's. He doesn't care about how proud he'd make the Pinkman name.

He wants to be himself.

He wants to make his own decisions and not live in his brother's shadow.

He wants a normal life.

He wants his brother.

But he knows he'll never get what he wants.

* * *

**AN: Well, looks like Jake is having problems of his own! Thank you guys for being so patient with me and for sticking around to read this story. I'm vary thankful! :)**


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